Direct Broadcast Satellite
by Aya-kun Rose
Summary: DannyRusty. Mid to post Thirteen. Rusty and Danny, they understand each other.


Rusty Ryan was a mystery to most people. But note that most people who rubbed elbows with Rusty Ryan were marks. And thus, "most people" didn't realize that they couldn't possibly know the mind of the man who smiled as he brushed by them. Most people didn't even get the chance to see the smile at all.

Those who were in on the scheme, let's call them the "privileged few," at least understood that, when it came to Rusty Ryan, there would always be some sort of loop out of which they would forever be left. The exception to the rule was, of course, one Danny Ocean, who enjoyed placement in a category all his own.

The name of the category on the chart of How Well Do You Know Robert Charles Ryan, in which Danny was the sole member, was called, simply, "Danny." This was because, unlike their marks, he knew Rusty Ryan. Additionally, this was because, unlike their teammates, he knew _everything about_ Rusty Ryan, down to his very thoughts as they manifested themselves in that mysterious brain.

Well. Mostly everything.

Here they had this comfortably familiar situation. A nondescript couch in just another hotel, one or several screens flickering before them. They sat there, side by side, silent, unmoving, their unblinking and vapid gazes captured by whatever the screen chose to show them. The exact details would vary from job to job, but the tableau itself never changed.

The screen today was a television, the type that displayed a few local channels, most of which displayed, in turn, buzzing snow. Danny didn't know why it had been one of these channels they had finally settled on, and a part of his mind cocked an eyebrow at the fact that they must have been watching static for at least twenty minutes now, neither one of them moving for the remote. It had them hypnotized: the jagged black and white lines sweeping angrily across the screen, diagonally from top-left to bottom-right; the droning hiss and hum of distorted nothing-noise.

But, really, it could have been any channel, any program at all, and the result would have been utterly and dreadfully the same. They stared at the monochrome screen, lost in the buzzing caverns of their own skulls.

Above the mental eyebrow-raise hummed Danny's more prominent thoughts. Presently, he was concerned with the state of his romantic affairs, pondering his future with the woman he'd fought for, lost everything for, tried to change himself for. He ran hypothetical numbers that corresponded with theoretical odds that quantified their relationship. He concocted plans and backup plans, drew up strategies and noted carefully where all the exits were. Then he tried not to think about his marriage as a con and failed horribly.

"I went to jail for her, you know. Twice."

His voice, gravely, could have been more television white noise.

"You're right, the first time wasn't exactly _for_ her. But it was still because of her."

Both men maintained their dormant postures.

"You'd think that she'd at least understand. That she'd at least appreciate what I've done because of her."

The distressed diagonal lines on the TV suddenly started going from top-right to bottom-left. He paused in his rant to note this turn of events.

"I mean….She…I. I tried, you know I tried. But then there was that guy, and all that money, what was I supposed to do? Just roll over and die?"

His next thoughts were "What will I do if she leaves me again?" but he didn't have to say it because it was already floating in the air between them, like a psychic ray beaming from his mind to Rusty's. Because in the chart of How Well Do You Know Daniel Ocean, there was also a category labeled "Rusty," population one.

Rusty's answer was this: he lifted one tattooed arm and slid it along the back of the couch, his hand brushing the back of Danny's neck like perhaps he didn't mean to. But Danny knew that movement, knew that Rusty didn't mean to brush the back of his neck just like Rusty didn't mean to stick his hand in your pocket and take your wallet. And your car keys. Even as he felt the hairs on his arms stand on end, he turned—disbelieving, baffled, and _curious_ about what he was reading from the other man—to Rusty, who calmly retrieved the remote from where it had somehow wound up on top of the couch next to Danny's head.

"Mind if I change the channel?" he asked, smiling.


End file.
